


Unsafe Places

by rabbitinthewoods



Series: Hobbitish Mannerisms [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo is indignant, Cultural Differences, Discussion of non-con, Discussion of underage relationship, Dori gives everyone tea, Gen, It doesn't actually happen, Thorin is grumpy, and family relationships, but people think it does, discussion of abuse, especially regarding love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitinthewoods/pseuds/rabbitinthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbits do not, in general, have records of their time before the settling of the Shire. But some things are known. Some things are held as truth.</p>
<p>One of those, held in the mind of every hobbit before they even have the words to define it, is that fauntlings must be protected at all costs.</p>
<p>So when Bilbo wakes abruptly to a muffled crying, there's nothing for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsafe Places

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Minor Bird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/663292) by [Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose). 



> I entirely blame chapter 11 and 12 of 'A Minor Bird' for this. Damn hobbit headcanons.
> 
> This was also meant to be really short. Bah.
> 
> Un-betaed, so all mistakes are entirely my own.

Hobbits do not, in general, have records of their time before the settling of the Shire. There are of course a few stories about their time near Bree, before Marcho and Blanco moved west, but these are largely oral traditions and not written down. Anything known of a time before that is regarded as myth. But some things are known. Some things are held as truth.

One of those, held in the mind of every hobbit before they even have the words to define it, is that fauntlings must be protected at all costs.

Bilbo remembers his own father, his own timid, quiet father, brandishing a machete he had gotten from goodness knows where at a bunch of ragged and sneering Big Folk who had seen fit to torment Bilbo and his friends. Later, as his father had shakily sipped tea to calm his nerves, Bilbo had climbed into his mother’s lap and eyed the machete warily. His mother had told him that they would give all the riches they owned, all of Bag End and even Hobbiton, just to see Bilbo safe. His father had nodded agreement, and Bilbo finally had a way to define a feeling he had always been too small to act on. _The young must be protected._

He is not too small now, and though he has no children of his own he takes a quiet delight in the time he gets to spend with his younger cousins or fauntlings he meets in Hobbiton. He finds he is good at stories and songs, tame things about good soil and green growing things and the bright sun overhead. He used to tell more dangerous tales, but then his mother died and elves and adventure suddenly seemed less desirable and he turned in on himself, becoming a proper hobbit.

But always he watches out for younger hobbits, for that was simply what was done. A leftover duty, some said, from times when their ancestors had wandered without a home, feet taking them through unsafe places.

And by the Old Took, aren’t his feet taking him through unsafe places now!

Bilbo laughs at himself as he sets up his bedroll, thinking on what his father would say to see him in such company, on an _adventure_ of all things. He mother would be mighty pleased, no doubt, if also a bit worried. Bilbo gently lowers himself into his bedroll, and shuffles until he is as comfortable as possible in such a wild place. Balin is taking first watch, and the rest of the company bed down, some closer than Bilbo would like. They are not particularly sweet smelling.

Soon enough though even the pong of unwashed dwarves cannot keep him from his slumber, and he drifts into dreams of fields and sun.

He wakes abruptly some time later to a muffled crying to his left. Fíli and Kíli have bedded down there, he remembers, and he tries to identify which one is thrashing about in the pervading gloom. It’s Kíli, he thinks, noting dark hair whipping about. The poor lad must be caught in a nightmare. Without pausing to think, Bilbo sits up and wriggles over to Kíli’s side. He sees tears streaking across the boy’s face, and his limbs have become tangled and trapped in his blankets.

There is nothing for it. Bilbo doesn’t hesitate as he grasps Kíli’s arms, muttering soothing words and freeing limbs from blankets. Kíli may be older and bigger than him, but Bilbo can’t help but feel that were he a hobbit Kíli would be but a young tween, caught up in a journey too big for him to understand.

“It’s alright, Kíli lad, Bilbo’s got you.” Kíli’s eyes pop open, though he doesn’t truly see Bilbo yet. Sobs slowly peter off into shuddering breaths and Bilbo runs a hand through the lad’s hair, reassuring him as best he can. “Nothing’s here that can hurt you. I promise.”

Finally the dwarf sees him, and relief battles confusion across his face. “Bilbo?”

“Yes lad, it’s just Bilbo. All the others are sleeping, dropped right back off no doubt. You’re safe.”

“Safe?”

“That’s right. You’re safe. I won’t let anything hurt you. Don’t you fear.”

This seems to reassure Kíli, who grips Bilbo as his breath evens out and his shaking subsides. They stay like that for a while, Kíli’s hands buried in the hobbit’s clothes as Bilbo runs his hand gently through the dwarf’s hair. Eventually Kíli looks ready to sleep again, so Bilbo tries to extract himself and move back to his spot. Only a terrified voice stops him.

“Don’t leave.”

Kíli looks so pitiful that Bilbo promises to stay, and soon finds himself tucking the dwarf in and settling down beside him. “Go to sleep Kíli,” he says. “You’ll be alright.” The young dwarf drifts off, and Bilbo follows not long after. He is woken only a few times by Kíli moving around, but goes back to sleep speedily. When he wakes for the last time, with the sun just starting to sluggishly move into their camp, it’s to find himself with an armful of dwarf. Kíli has managed to wrap himself around Bilbo, resting his head on Bilbo’s shoulder. It reminds Bilbo of nothing so much as evenings spent in Tookborough and Buckland, buried under a pile of younger relatives and quite unable and unwilling to move.

“Bilbo?”

“Good morning Bofur.” And it is a good morning. Bilbo feels rested, and the air is not too cold that getting up will be a chore.

The expression on Bofur’s face is hard to read upside-down, but if Bilbo had to guess he would say it was confused. “Found yourself a bed mate I see.”

Bilbo doesn’t want to reveal the truth of the matter without Kíli’s permission. Nightmares could be a very private matter among dwarves for all he knows. “He couldn’t sleep,” he says instead.

“Aye well, Thorin will not be too pleased.”

As if Thorin is ever pleased with anything Bilbo does. “Thorin should have been here instead.” He is the boy’s uncle after all, and family should look after their young.

Bofur does not agree, if his face is anything to go by. He looks incredibly shocked by the suggestion. Bilbo is told to get up right quick, if he knows what’s good for him, and Bofur wanders off muttering to himself. It is unusually brash of the fellow.

Still, perhaps Bilbo should get up. Bombur will appreciate help with breakfast no doubt. He extracts himself from the still sleeping dwarf, taking time to cover the lad with Bilbo’s own blankets, and goes to find Bombur. He finds him in front of the campfire, moving it about with a stick to make it suitable for cooking. The pair of them proceed to make up a light porridge, with some dried fruit as accompaniment.

Bombur compliments him on his cooking abilities. “You would have been a fine addition in our kitchen at home.” It is high praise among hobbits to be told you would be welcome in another’s kitchen, and although Bilbo doubts it has the same weight among dwarves he is pleased, and thanks Bombur, complimenting him in turn.

Breakfast made, he decides to take Kíli a portion, and grabs one for Fíli while he’s at it. A good meal will help chase away the terrors of the night.

He finds Kíli awake and chatting lowly with his brother. “Here you go lads,” he surprises them by shoving the bowls of porridge and fruit into their hands. “Eat up. A full stomach can do wonders for the constitution.” He gets joyful thanks, and after patting both boys on the head goes to get his own breakfast. He eats it at the eastward edge of camp, facing toward the sun rising ever higher into the sky. He ignores the increasing noise behind him, drinking in this moment of peace before they travel onward.

He is disturbed by a tentative voice beside him. “Mister Baggins?”

“Yes Kíli? Oh!” When he opens his eyes he is greeted by his backpack, everything back in its place from the night before and ready to go. “Who did that?”

Kíli smiles proudly. “I did Mister Baggins.”

“You needn’t have done that. I would have been quite alright to pack it on my own.”

“Don’t be silly Mister Baggins, its repayment for...for last night.” The poor boy looks slightly uncomfortable at saying this out loud.

Well bless his bones. “You don’t have to repay me, lad. It wasn’t a chore. Still, it was kindly done, getting my things ready for me, and I thank you for it.” A smile is back on Kíli’s face, and Bilbo pats him gently on the arm. “Come on, there are other things that will need seeing to before we move on.” Kíli nods, and dashes off with Bilbo’s pack towards the ponies.

Soon enough they have mounted and started moving again, and Bilbo wishes they had been longer in breaking camp. He has still not gotten used to having his feet off the ground like this. He sneezes often, and laments the forgetfulness that caused him to have a rag instead of a proper handkerchief. Still, it was kind of Bofur to give it to him, teasing aside.

At around midday, going by the sun, they stop beside a stream to take a drink and refresh themselves. “Thank goodness.” Bilbo mutters to himself, already sore from the saddle. He looks around as he heads for the stream, leaving Myrtle to make her own way, and is pleased to see everyone else is being sensible and refilling water skins. The day has become quite hot, and he well remembers his mother’s stern warnings of sun sickness. Needs tended to, he sits on the bank of the stream and rests his feet in the water.

Thorin strides past him, stormy faced, and Bilbo has to make an effort not to curl in on himself. Bothersome man. It has been many years since anyone has been able to make Bilbo feel utterly inferior, and yet this dratted dwarf manages it without even a look. His mere presence makes the wide open grassland feel claustrophobic.

“Kíli.” Thorin’s voice is harsh and quick. “Scout ahead, Nori shall go with you.”

Bilbo does not think much of Thorin’s tone, but it is not his place to say so, so he holds his tongue and glares petulantly at the stream. He doesn’t hear the rest of what Thorin says, and concentrates instead on picking interesting stones up off the stream bed. Kíli smiles at him as he walks past with Nori, and Bilbo hopes the last of the fear from his nightmare has gone. Poor lad.

Not thirty minutes after Kíli and Nori have gone ahead the rest of the company mounts up and moves forward. The grasslands they have been travelling through for the last few days give way to woodland and thick undergrowth that pulls at the legs of the ponies and slows their progress considerably. The easy conversation of the company (which Bilbo has been trying his best to join in with) turns darker, and more than one dwarf makes guttural gravely noises that Bilbo guesses to be cursing.

Balin, friendly dependable Balin, moves his pony beside Bilbo’s and gives him a gentle smile. “When we stop for the night,” he says “I shall show you how to check your poor pony’s legs for damage. This mess of a woodland is not kindly, and things could go badly if we don’t pay attention to our mounts.”

Bilbo thanks him, and offers his own smile. “I shall be more than glad to learn how to look after dear Myrtle properly. It certainly does seem a rather messy woodland compared to ones I’m used to.”

Balin nods at him, and with inquisitive questions prompts Bilbo to talk about the woods of the Shire, from the unfriendly Old Forest of Buckland to the hilly Woodey End and the constantly damp Bindbole Wood. Of course he has not had much cause to spend time in the Old Forest, but the other two have been the scene of many pleasant walks and overnight camps. They are airy, with the trees well spaced and not too wild, and the undergrowth prevalent enough to foster mushrooms but not enough to swallow a hobbit. “Although I feel this undergrowth would be another story altogether,” he says. “I feel should I get off dear Myrtle she would never find me again.” Balin laughs at that, and Ori mentions that forests in the Shire are probably cleared regularly and cared for, and the debate for a while how far away the nearest settlement is that this wood would be so wild and untended.

“It would be a good source of wood and game.” Dwalin is staring pensively into the middle distance, no doubt imagining the game in question. “There must be no-one for a good way, or we would see signs of it.”

“And indeed there isn’t, Mister Dwalin.” Kíli appears suddenly from beside them, his pony looking frazzled and his hair and clothing a veritable mess. He is grinning from ear to ear, and laughs loudly when Nori appears beside him, not nearly as messy but looking far more harried. “Not a soul to be seen, nor any trace of one.”

Nori growls at him despondently. “You’re enough of a handful to act as a whole host of human children.” Kíli laughs again, and Nori turns his attention to Thorin at the head of the line. “There is some small game, no people, and a decent site to rest for the evening a few miles ahead.” With that succinct report, he turns his pony to the back of the line, where Dori begins to fuss over him and Nori snipes back.

Bilbo tuts at Kíli’s appearance, but before he can say anything the lad takes his pony to the front of the line, no doubt to direct them to the camp site.

They reach the site not long after, and Bilbo does his best to help set up. It’s not something he has much practice doing in the dwarven style, more used to gentle hobbit camping with soft sturdy tents and casual travelling. Dwarves are much more rough and tumble, and everything is done as quickly and efficiently as possible. When Bombur finally takes pity on him and sends him to sit down while the broth cooks Bilbo finds himself alone on a stone jutting out of the ground, watching the rest of the company move around him.

“Bother this travel,” he mutters to himself, “what I wouldn’t give for this to be more like a proper walking holiday.”

“What’s a walking holiday?” Kíli plops downs on the ground next to him, startling Bilbo into almost falling off his rock. He must be more tired than he though, for a dwarf to sneak up on him.

“It’s exactly as it sounds. A holiday where you go walking. Though I must say it’s more leisurely than you might be imagining it; as far as hobbits are concerned, if anything’s worth doing it’s worth doing well, and that means slowly and with comfort.” Bilbo fixes him with a look, despairing at the state of his hair. “Not like you dwarves, running around like mad things with not a thought for decency.”

Fíli arrives on his other side just as he finishes speaking, and hands Kíli what appears to be materials for making arrows, if Bilbo is any judge. “Decency?” Fíli says. “Who can worry about some poor dear’s sensibilities when there’s work to be done?”

The pair of them laugh, and Bilbo huffs.

“Just because there’s ‘work to be done’, as you say, doesn’t mean you can’t do it with a little decorum.” They laugh again, and after that there is a gentle silence. Fíli uses oil and some sort of stone to sharpen his blades and Kíli does goodness knows what with his arrow materials. Bilbo is content to watch, idly wondering over his mother’s own collection of sharp implements and the pride she took in them. She’d taught him a little about weapons, but Bilbo has to admit to himself that he would be rather useless with a sword. He is much better with stone throwing, though of course in this wood he might have to get rather mucky to find a stone worth throwing in the first place.

“Kíli,” he says, suddenly reminded of the dwarf’s dismay appearance, “come here so I can get those twigs out of your hair.” Kíli gives him a sceptical look, but complies all the same. “Honestly, you look like a field mouse has nested in your hair.”

Bilbo cannot see Kíli’s face, but his tone is confused. “Field mouse?”

Bilbo spends the next few minutes trying valiantly to unravel Kíli’s hair and patiently explaining what a field mouse is and how exactly it goes about building a nest. He is not sure which is more vexing; Kíli cannot seem to sit still, and Fíli keeps interrupting his talk with questions. Still, it is pleasant, and keeps Bilbo occupied.

Right up until there is a shout, and a rock clips his ear.

He automatically rolls off the side of the boulder, grabs his walking stick from the ground and moves in front of Kíli, who has stood up but not moved. His ear stings, and for a panicked moment he wonders if they are being attacked. His eyes take in the area wildly.

“What was that?” He asks no-one in particular. There is a strained silence in response.

Gandalf moves into his view, and the wizard does not look best pleased. “Thorin Oakenshield, you had better have a good reason for this foolishness.”

“What?” Bilbo thinks this is perhaps not the best time for an in depth discussion of a particular dwarf’s personal motivation. The potential attack is surely more pressing. “Um, orcs?”

Thorin thunders over to him, face red and hands white where he is clenching them too tight. “Orcs have nothing to do with this.”

But – surely wargs can’t throw stones?

The dwarf king is staring at him. This entire situation is becoming distinctly uncomfortable, and still no-one seems worried about an attack. Thorin growls at him. “Remove yourself.”

“W-what? From where?”

“From near my _nephew._ ”

“Whatever for?”

Thorin looks fit to seize him in hand and shake him, and Bilbo comes to realise exactly who it was who threw that stone. His hands start to shake where they grip his staff, and his eyes flit around the camp for some sort of reassurance that he is not about to be messily killed. The dwarves are watching with varying degrees of horror and feigned ignorance. Gandalf, surely, will help. But Bilbo cannot read his face under the shadow of his hat, and the wizard makes no move towards him.

Thorin stops short of reaching for him, and growls again. “He is not yours to claim, to have. You are beneath him, even had you sought permission. Remove yourself.”

“I don’t – I don’t understand.”

The rage on Thorin’s face seems to increase tenfold. “You even deny your actions? We have seen you! We have all seen you –” Thorin cuts off, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He glances briefly behind him, as if afraid of the eyes of the others upon them, their ears tuned to catch any stray word.

Gandalf thuds his staff upon the ground with force, and his voice booms out from beneath the brim of his hat. “Say your accusation aloud, or hold your piece. Either way let us be done with it!”

This spurns Thorin on, and he surges forward until his chest is met by the end of Bilbo’s staff. “You seek to seduce my nephew.”

Bilbo almost loses his grip on his staff. “ _Seduce_ – why I never,” he takes a moment to breathe and try and reconcile such a _ridiculous_ notion within himself, “what evidence have you got for such an ugly accusation?” He regrets saying as soon as it’s out of his mouth; there is no evidence, there _can’t_ be evidence, to even talk about it is tantamount to admitting a possibility of guilt. But he has spent too many years in the Shire looking over trade contracts and parleying for disagreements between others to not automatically ask for evidence.

“Yester night, you lay with my nephew. Do not deny it!”

_Lay with him!_ “I deny it most strenuously! How _dare_ you – as if I would ever – he is a _child_. I should box you about the ears for such a suggestion!”

Kíli looks flustered, and his face is a deep red. “Mister Baggins wasn’t doing anything,” he says in a quiet voice, “I was having night terrors, uncle. He kept me company.”

“As should any decent being! I was merely doing my duty as an older hobbit. Why, I’ve no doubt any of you would have done the same if you heard a younger person gripped by nightmares. I’m surprised you didn’t all wake up the minute Kíli started.”

Thorin’s face is still like thunder, but Bilbo is not putting up with his nonsense. “And I suppose you did?” The dwarf asks.

What a question. “Of course I did! You should of too, as his uncle. You all should of. The very idea of leaving a child so vulnerable. It should be _me_ asking _you_  questions, like why you’ve failed in your duty as an uncle!” He is shouting, and it is only as the last word leaves his lips that it occurs to him that the solution to this dilemma may not be to turn it on its head quite so vigorously.

He is proved right a second later when Thorin roars at him and charges forward. Bilbo is only saved from being squashed by a timely intervention from Kíli, who pulls him out of the way and lets Thorin run past the pair of them. As the irate dwarf turns to them, Bilbo finds himself pushed between Fíli and Kíli and set shoulder to shoulder with them.

Thorin stops, and bellows. “Move! Fíli, Kíli, get out of the way. NOW.”

Bilbo may be imagining it, but he thinks he can feel Kíli trembling through their adjoining shoulders. Oh dear.

“No, uncle.” Even Kíli’s voice is tremulous. “Please. Stop.”

“Kíli,” Thorin’s voice has quietened, but it is no less harsh. “You shall move yourself, or I shall move you.” Kíli holds his ground, and Bilbo sees something change in the dark eyes of the dwarven king. His entire body tenses, and the noise that comes out of his mouth reminds Bilbo of nothing so much as a feral wolf. Thorin raises his fists, his hair and coat caught in a stray wind, his words a snarling avalanche of crushing syllables Bilbo cannot understand. He is the very image of a wrathful god from some terrifying tale.

Right, well. This is quite enough. Bilbo takes a deep and shaky breath. _Legs apart_ his mother’s voice says, _on the balls of your feet, put the weight of your whole body into the swing._ He moves forward, brings his walking stick in an arc, and –

_Thwack_.

“I suggest,” Bilbo says to a suddenly bewildered Thorin as he lays dazed on the ground, “that you stay down, oh King. There is a line –”

“What?” The dwarf ignores him and tries to regain his feet. Bilbo hits him over the head again.

“There is a line,” he continues, once Thorin has stopped moving, “that must not be crossed. You have not so much crossed it as leapt over it with ferocious abandon.” He is lecturing, he realises, a horrifying mimic of his father. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. The dwarf sorely needs it. He punctuates his next words with sharp prods of his walking stick. “You _do not_ threaten children. You _do not_ try to enact harm upon children. You _do not_ abandon children to ill fate and fear so that it is left to a near stranger to do your duty for you.”

Bilbo stops. There is a rather tense silence.

“Mister Bilbo, perhaps we might talk?” Ah, it’s Balin. Lovely, calm Balin. “There seems to be a misunderstanding.”

Bilbo keeps his eyes on Thorin as Dori walks up to them and the rest of the company watches, stunned. Dori clears his throat.

“Perhaps some tea would help?” He says. “I have some camomile left over.”

Bilbo smiles at him. “Yes, that would be quite wonderful thank you.”

“Right then, just let me get his royal majesty up off his royal backside and sat over there and we can discuss this like civilised individuals.”

Bilbo acquiesces, and moves back to allow Dori to get his hands under Thorin’s armpits and start moving him over to a seat by the fire. Balin turns to everyone else and harrumphs in a manner that says quite clearly _carry on nothing to see here_ , and Bilbo takes the opportunity to turn back towards Fíli and Kíli and make sure they’re alright.

Their eyes are wide, and they are staring at him like there’s an oliphaunt behind him. He has to resist the urge to look.

“Are you two alright?” He asks. They nod. “Good.” He pats them both on the arm, and keeping a firm grip on his walking stick ushers them toward the fire. They keep staring at him as he gets them to sit and places mugs of Dori’s camomile in their hands.

There is the sound of a scuffle behind him, and when Bilbo looks he sees Thorin struggling in vain against the immovable rock that is Dori. Dwalin is stood to the side of his King, hand halfway to an axe and looking terribly confused.

“If you don’t sit still, I’m not going to give you any tea.” Dori is staring at Thorin like the other dwarf has personally offended him with his unwillingness to stay put.

Balin walks up to Bilbo and gently links Bilbo’s small arm through his larger one, then guides him around the campfire. He nods at Bifur and Glóin as he does so, the former of whom is cheerfully holding his own cup of tea. “Watch the boys,” he says, and the two dwarves move to shadow the princes. “There Thorin,” he continues, “they are safe. Be content.”

Thorin does not look content. Bilbo wonders if he ever is.

Balin bids him sit across from the irate king, and once everyone has a mug of tea takes a seat himself. Gandalf hovers threateningly at the edge of the circle they make, smoking his pipe and glaring at Thorin from beneath harsh brows.

Balin clears his throat. “It appears to me,” he says slowly, “that things are done differently in the Shire.”

Too right they are.

“You mean they are all monsters.” Thorin grumbles.

Bilbo almost reaches for his stick again, but Gandalf’s glare briefly transfers to him and he stays his hand. A king as an enemy is one thing, a wizard quite another.

Instead he bites out a few words. “He means we care for our young.” Thorin is about to speak again, but Bilbo carries on. “You heard Kíli. He was having _night terrors_ , and apparently I was the only one who saw fit to help him. Shame on the lot of you.” Only Dori’s firm hand on his king’s shoulder prevents another fight from starting.

Balin turns to him. “Master Baggins, I mean no offence, but perhaps you should save such damning words for when you have the whole picture?”

“I have picture enough.” He says.

Gandalf speaks then, and Bilbo wishes the man didn’t make him feel like such a child. “Bilbo, while I do not agree with the way Thorin chose to deal with the issue, I do agree with Balin. Dwarves are different from hobbits, Bilbo.”

“I think you mean dwarves are stupid.” He is really not thinking before speaking tonight. Gandalf agrees, if the expression on his face is any indication. “Fine, I will hear them out.”

Balin smiles, clears his throat and clasps his hands together as if preparing to give a speech. “Mister Bilbo, do correct me if I am wrong, but would I be right in saying that children are very precious in the Shire?”

“Of course they are.”

Balin nods. “And would I also be correct in saying that it is not merely the immediate family that cares for the young?”

“Of course,” Bilbo scoffs, “us hobbits look out for one another. You don’t just leave a child to harm if you can help. Doesn’t matter if you know them or not.”

“Thank you, Mister Bilbo. That helps to clarify some things.”

Dori interrupts. “What exactly do you count as ‘harm’?”

“Oh, well,” now that Bilbo thinks about it, he’s not sure how to answer the question. “Well, there’s the obvious ones I suppose, like bumps and bruises and the like. But you also have to make sure they don’t do anything stupid, like try and ride a water-wheel or aggravate the cattle.”

There is a bit of muttering around him at that, and Bilbo is sure he catches _cattle_ said in a disbelieving tone.

“And night terrors, you have to protect them from night terrors?” Dori asks him.

“Yes obviously. Words and emotions can be just as damaging as some of the physical things, you know.”

Dwalin makes an unpleasant sound. “You mean the bairns are coddled?”

“ _Protected_ , thank you very much.” He sniffs. “Alright, so sometimes they get a bit spoilt, but better too much love than too little, as my father used to say.”

Dori is giving him a considering look. “Doesn’t sound all that bad to me. Sounds quite reasonable, in fact.”

Nori scowls at his brother. “That’s because you coddled us yourself.”

Dori lifts his chin and does not look at his brother. “Ori turned out well enough,” he says rather pointedly.

“Gentlemen, please,” Balin gives them both a look, forestalling any more fighting. “If we could keep to the matter at hand?” Everyone settles again, and Balin turns to Bilbo once more. “It appears to me, Mister Bilbo, that the dangers faced by the typical hobbit and the dangers faced by the typical dwarf are very distant. We do not have to worry so much about, well, aggravated cattle than we do about aggravated orcs. We do not deal with water-wheels so much as we deal with choke-damp and tunnel collapses.”

“Are you saying that the life of a dwarf is more dangerous than that of a hobbit?” Despite the truth of the statement Bilbo is still slightly offended; he has been told enough on this journey how soft and weak he is, he does not need it applied to his entire race thank you.

Balin merely shrugs. “Perhaps it is simply that hobbits have the space to be caring in the manner that they are. Dwarves are no less loving of their children, especially since there are so few. But the world is not always kind to dwarves, so kindness is not always something we are taught. We must be tough, able to deal with our own problems rather than have others help us.”

Oh. “That sounds miserable.”

“Mister Bilbo,” here Balin heaves a great sigh, and a great sorrow seems to settle on his shoulders before he shrugs it off. “I cannot say that one way is better than the other, I simply say that is how things _are_. Dwarves do not comfort children when they have night terrors, they teach their children to confront them. They have to.”

There is a moments silence as Bilbo tries to digest all this information. He only speaks once he has reached a tentative conclusion. “So you are saying, that if I had told Kíli to _buck up_ ,” Bilbo winces as he says it, knowing he’s not being fair. “Or if I had told him how to deal with it, that wouldn’t have been so strange?” Balin nods, and this confirmation gives Bilbo confidence. “But because I,” he pauses, and an appropriate metaphor suddenly makes itself known. “I held a sword and shield for him, in a manner of speaking, rather than giving them to him to wield. And this is strange, for a dwarf, so you quite reasonably wondered at my motives.”

Balin beams at him, and Thorin gives him a measuring look.

“You did not wish to cripple him then,” the dwarf king asks, “to make him dependant on you, a...a pet?”

“Oh goodness no!” He is no longer angry at Thorin, and instead feels an empathy for him. What a horrible thing to think was happening to someone you loved. “I just wished to console him.”

“But how do hobbits ever learn to be independent if they are constantly leashed?”

Bilbo chooses to ignore Thorin’s word choice; there has been quite enough disagreements already. “Well, they go through their tweens of course. You know, they rebuke authority and run rampant for a few years. It’s absolutely impossible to control them, and so they make a great many mistakes. And try not to repeat them once they come of age. Though of course, if they do, someone is always there to lend a hand.”

“Hobbits,” Gandalf booms “are very much a community based people, with all the good and bad that entails.”

“Indeed. Goodness knows I could stand a little less gossiping –”

Gandalf continues over him. “Dwarves are much more individualistic, with all the good and bad _that_ entails. I do wish I had had the foresight to tell you all this at the beginning of the journey, then this all could have been avoided.” The wizard blows out a great puff of air that disrupts his pipe smoke and pushes it into new and fantastical shapes. “No matter, what is done cannot be undone. You all know _now_ , and hopefully that shall be enough.”

They all talk a bit more, trying their best to work out and understand the differences between their two races. _Different indeed_ , Bilbo thinks, _I shall have to stop thinking them stupid._

Eventually everyone drifts off to bedrolls and sleep, and Thorin walks towards him tentatively, which is an odd thing to see from the dwarf.

“It seems I misjudged you, burglar.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t any better.”

And with that almost-apology aired, they shake hands under the steel gaze of Balin and reach some sort of peace.

Afterwards, as he sets out his sleeping gear, he is surprised by Fíli and Kíli flanking him and laying down their own bedrolls.

“I have decided,” Fíli says when Bilbo gives him a startled look, “that we are going to call you uncle. It is my right, as the oldest, to decide this.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Fíli looks at him, and Bilbo is reminded that this boy will be king one day. It shows.

“Anyone who would protect my brother so, even against his own family, is worthy of being family themselves.”

“Oh.” Bilbo says. “Isn’t that a bit – I mean – well, we hardly know each other.”

“I know you well enough.” Bilbo can believe it.

He coughs awkwardly. Watching children in the marketplace is one thing, but being an uncle is quite another. “Well, I won’t be any good as a dwarf uncle you know. It’s going to be hobbitish mannerisms all the way.”

Fíli laughs. “No bother. Hobbitish ways seem to have worked well so far.”

He makes one last ditch attempt at talking some sense into the lad. “What would your parents say?”

“Our father has passed to the maker’s halls.” Kíli says, and shushes him when he offers condolences.

“Our mother,” Fíli says with a grin that Bilbo is instantly suspicious of, “would love you.”

Kíli snorts. “Yea, she’s always hitting uncle Thorin too.”

And with that, the matter seems to be closed.


End file.
